


Mundane Mondays

by starliequinn



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-25 01:41:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16187453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starliequinn/pseuds/starliequinn
Summary: Edit: What started off as a fictober challenge will now sit as a collection of ideas that I wanted to write.  I feel like they'll come off as slice of life stories.





	1. Girlscout Cookies | "Can you feel this?"

“Fer a chem’stry major, yer really strugglin’ with that there lighter,” Fiddleford snorted as you struggled with the lighter in your fingers.  He put his hand out for it and you dropped it into his palm, feeling a bit foolish. You think by now in life, you'd know you won't burn your thumb with a small lighter, but no.  You've only known the safety of barbeque lighters and it was all you’ve needed to know.  
  
“Where'd you get chemistry major from Neuroscience?” you asked, and watched as Ford pulled himself from the carpet to cross the room.  “Brain chemistry, maybe, but that's a stretch.” Fiddleford shrugged. Ford returned with a small candle in a glass jar.  
  
“I used to have issues with it, too, so I started using this,” he said, resuming his position as your personal pillow.  He crossed his legs, allowing you to place your head back into his lap before continuing. “Constant flame. And it smells like maple and apples.”  Using his own lighter, he held the candle upside down and lit it before placing it in the center of the triangle the three of you created on the floor.    
  
When you told him you didn’t really pin him for smoking a reefer, he just laughed.  “It’s not often, but the RAs don’t seem to really mind. As long as it’s not excessive.”  
  
“And ya let ‘em get a hit in now an’ again,” Fiddleford chuckled, and dipped his wick into the flame.  
  
Ford put his massive hands on either side of your head, leaning forward to tower over you.  “Before we start, I need to let you know, this is a safe environment. You do not need to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, and you are free to leave at any time.  Do you understand?” You nod.  
  
“Good.  If you become uncomfortable and find leaving difficult, we will stop and give you the space you need to feel safe again.  Please do not hesitate to let me— _us_ know if there's anything you need.  I will be gauging your reaction to the certain strains we agreed upon earlier and documenting them for you to look over later, as you requested.  Do you understand?”  
  
“I’m not high yet, Stanford, I getcha,” you retort, “You make it sound like homework.”  
  
“You’re important t— _it’s important_ that we are all on the same page,” he replies, a pinch of sternness in his tone.  You raise your eyebrows at him, but he tucks your hair behind your ear and it puts you back at ease.    
  
“Ford, I trust you.   _And_ Fid.   _I trust both of you._ ”  In the corner of your eye, you spot Fiddleford trying to busy himself with the fibers in the carpet, looking anywhere but at the situation unfolding just half a foot away from him.   
  
You wonder which of you was more obvious.  
  
Off to your side, Ford also mentions that he's laid out some snacks, a pitcher of water you know they had to smuggle out of the cafeteria, and most importantly, the other half of your cold dinner that you'd left untouched as panic set in over your study session.  All of these things were just with his reach, but he'd made sure to drag down his pillow and a throw blanket just within yours.  
  
You'd say he was the more obvious one this time around.  How Fiddleford maintains his resolve to not just tease both of you constantly is beyond you.  Maybe how he maintains best friends status equally with you is how.  It was actually his suggestion that you try to relax with a bit of the devil's lettuce, even if it took the story of Ford's first experience for you to do it.  
  
After a short tutorial on how to use a pipe and a few ill-worded instructions (“Dear, you take such small hits.  You’ve got to suck it in just a little harder”), you first notice is Ford scrawling on a notepad next to your head.  You try to peer over, just his thighs are just thick enough for you to not peer over without more effort, so you ask instead.  
  
“Just noting that your shoulders have loosened up about fifteen minutes after your first few drags,” he said, “any changes in your physical and mental states are important to note, so you’ll know what strains have a positive and negative effect.  More importantly…” He glanced back, “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Nothing unusual.  Oh, but I’m not so stressed about the midterm coming up,” you note.  It’s true, the midterms have been a constant weight on your shoulder in every waking moment since their announcement.  It was the back burner of your mind at all times, but at this moment, you don’t feel it. In fact, as you try to recall your worries, they don’t come.  It’s almost as though your ability to stress has vanished completely, and you yell this aloud.  
  
Fiddleford nearly chokes on his hit while Ford makes notes, grinning wildly.  
  
“It’s— _cough_ —great, ain’t it?” he asks, thumping a fist on his chest.  
  
“I just— _wow_.  Imagine how much a person could get done if they didn’t have to stress or be so anxious all of the time!”  The revelation is too much, and you can barely contain it. You’d kick yourself for not trying this sooner, but you simply cannot find the will to be negative about anything.  
  
“I mean, _can you feel this_?” you ask, “Can you feel like this _all of the time_?”  
  
Ford shrugs, “I’d say it lasts four, maybe five hours.”  
  
“Long enough t’get an essay done, I reckon,” Fiddleford adds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is loosely based off of my first experience a few days ago. Some things I threw in (I mean, I took *a lot* of liberties with this), but note taking? You bet that’s exactly what I did. I had three different ones and each had it’s own reaction for me. As for whether or not these strains existed in the 70s, well. *shrug* I’d write more, but it’s just a prompt. I didn’t want to make it too long. Perhaps I’ll revisit the idea in the future.


	2. A Dull Bulb in Dim Lighting | "People like you have no imagination.”

“Dr. Pines, a moment of your time, if you have it.” Ford looked up from his station (this time around, it was an apothecary table) and squinted at the other side of the room to you. You stand patiently waiting for a reply before it finally comes in a surprised, ‘oh!’ and a confirmation to enter. All routine for a new assistant, he still isn't used to your presence.

The lack of metal clanking or the rush of a blowtorch indicated the absence of the engineer, and you wondered where that John Denver impersonator had skittered off to now. “I finished finalising those edits you asked for,” you say lazily, brushing a hand across some of the equipment as you pass. Rarely do you get the opportunity to come down to the lab in such conditions. Meaning, 1. Not being rushed out during an experiment, and 2. Afford the opportunity to linger around. You had no other obligations past this last assignment, and he seemed too occupied to rush you out or rush out of the door himself.

“Yes, very good, please place it on the tray so I can look over it when I get a chance. Presumably whenever Fiddleford returns,” Ford replied, not looking up, “so he can… give his… opinions…” Your boss was doing that thing where he would trail off while talking. He tried to multitask giving instruction while concentrating and this was often the result.

“Anything I can inquire about?” you ask.

“I encourage curiosity, as you well know,” Dr. Pines replied, this time giving you just a bit of his attention. Surprisingly, he straightened up and moved slightly as you approached, giving you room to observe.

On the table were the samples of flora he'd picked up while exploring the vast areas of the forest surrounding the area. Despite the numerous things he's brought back before, it simply amazes you that he seems to find more each time. Bizzare or mundane, it was always something new; this time was no different.

“What are these called?” you asked, nodding to a pair of bright, near-neon purple- and green- striped leaves. They were broad and shiny, much like a common houseplant, but these look like they were meant for a herbalist’s rave and you're certain you've never come across them before. Little bits had been sliced away, indicated by fluorescent fluids still present on a nearby knife. The leaf, however, had no indication of an incision.

“I don't have a name for them as of yet,” he replied, “and I have not found text on them.” Dr. Pines removed the set of goggles and replaced them with his eyeglasses again. Blinking back his vision, he looked over again, almost as if seeing you for the first time.

“Ah, much better,” he said with a grin, “So… about that inquiry?”

You hadn't expected him to take it seriously. “Are you thinking of switching to botany?” you joke, pulling a set of gloves for yourself as you approach. You haven’t been employed with him for too long, but the first week taught you more about lab safety than any number of years in a classroom, more or less by experience. Too many specimens that didn't take well to captivity and plant life was not excluded from that list. In fact, you found out the less communicative a specimen was, the more suspect it became.

“Not at all,” he replied, “this is more of a side project to keep me busy in my spare time.” You look to his half-built polydimensional metavortex and ask yourself how much spare time could he possibly have with such an undertaking?

“So, what are you doing then? Trying to create an organic glow stick?” You put a gloved finger on the blade of the knife, swiping into the goo along the tip.

“A what?” he asks.

“A glow stick?” you repeat, reapeatedly pushing together and pulling apart your finger tips.  “Ew, this is gross.  Anyway, I mean those light-up things that you crack and, y’know, kids put them on their wrists at carnivals and… I don’t know, they dance with them...” You never figure you’d have to explain what a glowstick is, but you also don’t peg your boss as the carnival type, either.

“You mean… oh, you mean a chemiluminescent signal device?”

You frown. “Oh, come on.  You've never heard of a glow stick.  You can't tell me that, Doc."  
  
He looked at you, asking why people would play with such a toxic device.   
  
"Dr. Pines.  It glows.  It looks _fun and cool._ "  His blank stare persisted.  
  
You rolled your eyes, astounded.  "People like you have no imagination.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were glowsticks even around in the 70’s? I’m sorry, I’m not doing any fact-checking at all. I’ll go back and look later. (Update: They were, but had just barely come out.)


	3. Sundown | "How can I trust you?"

You lean in the doorway of your home, shading your eyes from the second sun as it sinks slowly behind The Hill. In a few minutes time, the next cycle will have begun, but not before you’ve shut your door to this weary, pinkish stranger. He’s a foreigner, you can tell by his clothing and how he wears all of his belongings on his back, but more importantly how he tries not to beg for shelter.

“I ask again, how can I trust you, stranger?” You hear your children down the hall, inquiring when you will shut the door, the fear-tinged in their tone. They haven’t lived long enough to know what the air feels like when the cycle starts, so they assume the lessened light means they are in danger. You know when it will happen, but you wonder if this vagabond will convince you to save him in time. Interestingly enough, the fact that he hasn’t tried to force his way in by now tells you very much about him.

“I can’t tell you how you can, but I can offer my services in exchange for,” he looks over his shoulder, “my life.” You raise a brow. So he knows what’s coming.  You assume this is why he is not begging, but rather bargaining.  He knows the price of life is not free.

“My children and I live here,” you say, eyeing the sun. A bluish hue is driving down faint streaks of purple, pink, and gold, and you hear the pitter-patter of small feet running away. “You can understand why I am wary. The streets have been barren for an hour now. Why are you coming here, minutes away from the lunesca cycle?”

“I have tried for hours to seek shelter in public domiciles, but to no avail.”  He coughs into his fist in place of saying more, and that’s when you notice it.  
  
“Your hands,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“That was one of the complications, yes.” Realising what he’s done, his knee-jerk reaction is to hide them, but stops himself just as quickly.  Your gaze softens on him.

“I am a researcher and a traveller,” he begins again sharply, and you can feel the creeping cold of a dying light along your skin. You can already see the frost approaching the town, held off only by the collecting warmth from the city’s glow. He must have felt it moments before, you standing in the shadow of your home, because he lists even more of his bargaining chips with intense urgency. “ _And a skilled craftsman. Anything that needs fixing, I—_ ”

Wordlessly you grab the stranger by the lapels and yank him over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind him. In the next moment, you shove him back against the door, keeping him at an arm’s length and a hand readied to act should he make a move. Hesitancy ripples down your spine as you wait for him to speak or move.

He does neither. In fact, his eyes just dart all over your face, waiting for your reaction.  A beat passes.

“Traveller,” you address him, “Your name.”

“F-Ford. Stanford Pines, ma’am.”  
  
"Stanford Pines," you repeat, and allow the name to sit on your tongue for just a moment.  Just behind him, you hear as the new cycle begins, ushered in by the sound of quick frost encasing the doorway.  Stanford Pines shudders as you're certain he feels the temperature quickly drop, even in his thick layers of clothing.  You've only just closed the storm door, and let him go to show him what he has just missed.  
  
Everything visible within the light of your walkway has immediately crystalized in the darkness.  It must be his first Encrust, because the sight of it causes him to sink to his knees.  
  
"Is... is this survivable?" he utters, and places a six-fingered hand on the glass.  After the measures he took to gain sanctuary, you know his query is rhetorical.  
  
"Not for your kind," you reply, "Not for many, actually."  
  
He looks down at his free hand.  "I _—_ I had companions out there," he said, "We were all looking for shelter.  The idea was to alert the others once we'd found it, but... I ran out of time."  He looked at you in the reflection of the door.  
  
"When will I be able to find out if they made it?"  
  
Guilt.  That's what he's expressing.  You refuse to give him hope.  It isn't yours to give.  "For your life, Stanford Pines," you say, as you pull him to his feet, "I suggest that you pray that they did not.  Look, just there."  As you drag him away from the storm door, you nod in the direction of the most visible light furthest down the pathway.  
  
Ford squints but you see it perfectly.  Movement, just beyond the street lights.  When you begin to see pinpricks of light is when you move him away sharply, and all but slam the proper door of the house.  You've seen them before, but not what they belonged to.  You don't wish to, nor do you wish it upon your... guest.  
  
"Strang _—Stanford._ "  Behind you, you hear the soft movements of bare feet across wood.  Of course, your children are always curious about the unknown.  
  
"Ford," he says, his eyes straying past you to the young ones approaching.  "Just Ford is fine."  
  
"I like Stanford," you reply, "Is just Stanford also fine?"  He must not receive this reaction often, because it takes him a bit to reply.  It's just a nod, but a smile follows it.  
  
"So, Stanford Pines," you start, "Researcher, craftsman, traveller.  Perhaps a traveller would have some stories to tell to pass the time?"


End file.
